After I arrive in Kraków, within just a few days I settle into my usual rhythm. Here I spend most of my time out walking. I walk and walk, and walk some more as if through my soles touching the ground I can commune more deeply with the city. I avoid the places thronged with tourists, which tend to be in the renovated historical city center. The city still has some areas that haven’t undergone a facelift and therefore have retained something I remember from my youth.
One such place is Ulica Długa, which means Long Street. It’s indeed the longest street in the wheel of streets just past Planty Park, which encircles the old town. Adam Zagajewski lived here after he came to Kraków to attend the university. It wasn’t his favorite street, but he immortalized it in Another Beauty, his book-length essay, where in the very first paragraph he states that “it didn’t belong to our world,” calls it “a flagrant anachronism,” only to add later that it “was caught painfully off guard by modern history.” His description refers to the street as he saw it in 1963 during the time he rented a room from Mrs. C., who, as a member of the landed gentry, was an anachronism herself. During the poet’s short residence there, the street harked back to a much earlier time. Zagajewski could hear then the clatter of horse drawn wagons delivering coal to residents and leaving the “fragrant horse dung,” which lured sparrows. The street also appears in his poem “Long Street,” where it gets labeled as “Thankless.” Given the street’s reappearence in the poem and essay, I won’t be incorrect if I venture to say that even though the poet lived afterwards in other parts of the city, Długa, the first street in the city he came to love, would remain forever in his memories.
So many years have passed since Adam Zagajewski lived there that it would be natural to assume that by today, twenty-three years into the new century, Długa has caught up with modern times. It seems, though, that even if it’s no longer resistant to change, it remains a bit skeptical and ambivalent about embracing the changes that other Kraków streets have wholeheartedly accepted.
Its desire to remain faithful to bygone times doesn’t mean, however, that Długa is lifeless. This street doesn’t slumber. There’s energy and busyness, activity and motion, some of it frenetic, with people hurrying to work or school, cars honking, trucks rattling on the cobblestones, streetcars zooming by. Still, despite all the big city noise and commotion, Długa preserves the small town atmosphere that has vanished from other more forward looking streets. It’s lined with small shops—groceries, bakeries, jewelers’, leather goods—mostly owned by individuals or families, not by chains. If the strap on your sandal breaks, you’ll find here several shoe repair shops. If your dress needs to be hemmed, there are seamstresses who won’t mind making small alterations. And if you’d like to spend less on electronic devices, you can get a refurbished cell phone or a computer in one of the establishments there. You can also buy musical instruments in a tiny store whose owner or his assistant will be happy to lower the bridge saddle on your acoustic guitar. The many used clothes stores don’t claim they sell vintage attire, their modesty reflected in much lower prices than you’d find in their counterparts located on more self-important streets.
Some of the buildings saw their last coat of paint prior to or right after WWII, but they bear their fate with patience as if they know their turn will eventually come. Their gates lead into well-like backyards. Some of them are seedy and local drunks like to congregate there. Others take you into spaces that have been converted into what might be called a community garden. Obviously more civic minded neighbors live there, the ones who’d like to break from the past. But no matter what they do, the smells permeating the backyards and staircases return to an earlier time: close to lunch, the air is full of the odor of fried meats, thick stews, heavy soups. Vegetarians quite likely live in the area since students from Jagiellonian University rent rooms here, but the aromas of their tofu stir-fries or vegetable curries can’t get through and contend for dominance. Asserting their undisputed claim of ownership, those other smells fill every nook and cranny. On the street the unruly exotic notes from a newly opened Vietnamese restaurant or a kebab place disrupt the symphony of homey aromas trapped inside the buildings or wafting through the open windows.
The street now boasts several small cafés tucked between the stores that have been here forever. They serve excellent espressos, something unheard of in the olden days. Today, to flee for a moment the bustle outside, I step into one for a cappuccino. There are only four tables here, all crowded together. I sit down with my coffee near the window. I’ve taken several swallows when the door opens and an elegant older man enters and greets everyone. He’s holding a small bouquet of red roses. Someone unfamiliar with the street might think that he doesn’t belong here. I know, though, that the street is democratic, housing teachers, journalists, and artists across the hallway from car mechanics, janitors and penniless bohemians. The man seats himself facing the door and places the roses on the table. I slowly drink the coffee. He must be waiting for someone. I’d like to see who this person is, but what if she doesn’t show up? I’d hate to witness the man’s disappointment, so I leave.
Walking toward the end of Długa in the direction of Planty Park, I encounter an older man with hair tied in a pony who is pushing a cart. He too is headed to the park. I’ve seen him there before. From afar, he might be taken for a bum. From close by, he doesn’t fit the description. Although the day is warm, he has on an unzipped grayish fleece jacket and a faded orange t-shirt. His cart—or is it an old baby carriage?—holds several large plastic bags full of seed. Once he arrives in the park, he’ll sit on a bench, take out handfuls of seed and feed the birds, most of them pigeons. He’ll smile benignly when they come near, the braver ones perching on the arms of this St. Francis of Kraków.
I walk faster than he does, and as soon as I get ahead of him, I hear the trumpet from Saint Mary’s church in the city’s market square. It plays every hour, its sound a regular reminder of the inescapable present and its constant passing.
A beautiful essay about a famous Krakow street. These horses remembered by Adam Zagajewski remind me of my childhood.
Thoroughly enjoyed reading this, Ewa. Long Street came alive for me.